Gratitude   “How many pills?” I asked him. All I heard was his faltering breath, a faint mumble, more breathing, then: “I just . . . wanted . . .” in a blurred, beaten voice. “Jake,” I said. “Three? Four? How many pills?” He yawned, then with a strange detachment said, “All of ’em . . . I just . . . wanted . . . to say . . . you’re my . . . friend . . . this . . . doesn’t change . . . anything . . . so . . . well . . . goodbye. . . .” I’m still haunted by this call, the clock still stopped at three a.m., my frantic refusal to let him hang up: “No,” I said, “not goodbye, we aren’t through yet. Where are you?” I had to get him, I didn’t know how. “Jake — where are you?” I asked, again and again. “. . . Sleepy . . . so . . . sleepy . . . ,” he muttered, then, “I see a blue . . . sign . . . MiniMart . . .” As fast as I could go, screeching down the dark and lifeless streets, I tore through town, found him in his mother’s car, nodding out, heavy-lidded eyes rolled high into his head, a dozen empty beer cans, an empty bottle of Excedrin Extra Strength. I yanked him out, made him walk, hauled his ass to the hospital. Saved him. He thanked me once, but now we hardly ever talk.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2010